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Sacramental Whine
At
10:00 AM Easter morning my mother is finishing the brown sugar glaze for the
ham and my father is pulling his delicious pies from the oven. At 10:00 AM
Easter morning, my grandparents are packing up their salads and puddings and
making sure their grandchildren and great grandchildren have a special prize
for the holiday, usually a plastic Easter egg with a five dollar bill inside
which they'll hide and let them all go seek. At 10:00 AM Easter morning, my
sons are eating the heads off chocolate rabbits and fighting the good fight
to dress up to go to my parents' house. BUT, at 10:00 AM Easter morning,
I'm in my stupid work khakis making stupid coffee for the stupid people who
don't want to dirty their stupid retarded kitchens. Worse yet, I have a
stupid head cold because the stupid weather can't make up its stupid mind.
My goal for the day is to just stare at my watch and make a mad dash for the
door at the first chance of escape.
At
10:45 AM Easter morning the crew at work has their usual meeting as they do
every morning and they will forever have every morning til God returns or
the earth explodes. I swear my head is going to implode and I couldn't be
any crankier if they told me I wasn't making Holiday pay. Ohhhhhhh wait a
sec… I'm NOT making Holiday Pay?? Screw you. Screw you all. May you all
catch my disgusting drippy nose and hoarse-throat virusy thing!
Rumours start circulating that if we're not busy, we'll have to dig through
trash in a kiddy pool to look for discarded silverware and ramekins. At
this point, hell, I have no explanation as to why, but up goes my head, my
mouth opens and I say aloud, "God, when has my life become so fucking
repetitious?" To those who even glanced up at my outbursts, whether they be
friend or foe, all I wanted to do was point a finger and say "Screw you, and
you, oh… and you. Screw you twice. Screw you, Hippy. Screw, screw, screw,
you… you… YOU!" Insert thumbs in ears, wiggle them around, extend tongue
and blow. No one else there could possibly be feeling more sorry for
themselves than I.
At
11:00 AM Easter morning, people actually started walking in, two by two, as
if it was some fantastic ark. Between coughs and amidst my growing fever, I
fantasized about how I'd walk up and just say, "Easter rules are that you
eat ham or turkey. Why the hell do you want a cheeseburger?!" Don't tell
me I'm working for $2.13 an hour when I could be serving cheeseburgers at
McDonalds for minimum wage. Hell, probably twice that amount for holiday
pay and they're located right next door. I find myself standing at the side
door, leaning on the waitress stand and feeling an incredible jealousy for
McDonald employees as I stare at those golden arches. I decide to hate them
as if I were 16 years old and they were nominated homecoming Queen and never
got a zit. I saw them as being the "rich kids" in Pretty in Pink and I'm
the stupid loser who has to sew my own Easter dress, not because my father
can't get a job but because I can't find a better one. Meanwhile, my sons
are probably laughing and having their egg hunt with my kid sister who works
at the Gap and is free of contagious diseases. I decide to hate her too,
just because I'm on a roll. Screw you, Megan.
At
1:00 PM Easter afternoon, the manager lets everyone but me and two others go
home because the place is all but dead. Those rumours of garbage and the
kiddy pool are putting me on guard and I find myself in full Chihuahua mode,
yapping and snapping at anyone who approaches me who wears a more
prestigious name badge. Just for kicks and giggles, I spew out a few OSHA
regulations in case they're even thinking it and are within earshot of my
diatribe. I've made $7.50 in the last three hours and will gladly use it to
buy Johnny Cochran if I have to. That could change my "screw you" tune to
"sue you and you and you" right quick. Now the temperature in the place is
stuck at 86 degrees and my cough has gone from occasional to torrential. If
there is still tuberculosis in 2003, I've caught it, I swear. And how can
my nose run so much? It's so small a thing! Between bitching I'm ripping
sheets of paper towels off the rack as if I was planning on making a train
for a wedding dress… cheaply. With no holiday pay I would have to, now
wouldn't I? Stupid bastards ruining the wedding I'm not even having!
At
3:00 PM Easter afternoon I'm getting anxious. It's an hour before second
shift comes in. To celebrate I go out the back kitchen door and have a
cigarette. I inhale once and my lungs remind me I have the drama queen's
version of TB so I toss it aside. It's then I notice that all the "Danger"
signs on the large garbage bins have had the "D's" scratched out. There
stand four "anger" signs in my face and I have to wonder if someone did this
on Christmas Eve, or another holiday when they were stuck here too. Then I
remember that I worked Christmas Eve, and every other holiday and lit
another cigarette and hoped I had made enough tips for a case of Heineken.
Easter Heineken. I also looked around hoping there was some sign I could
scratch off that would read "Screw you", but that's a hard one. At this
point I was finding "Screw you" to be juvenile anyway. Such are my moods.
"Anger" was just fine.
At
4:00 PM Easter afternoon, I'm done with guests and it's a good thing,
because it's been two hours since I've seen one. I can actually go home
now, take some medicine (or Heineken since doing both would be a fast way to
a celebrity death), and listen to my sons tell me how much fun they had
without me. They're too young to carry back plates of leftovers so it looks
like a condensed chicken noodle soup night for me. Before leaving, however,
a few people decide we can have our own Easter dinner. Sure, it'll cost us
and we'll be putting half the tips we made back in the franchise's pocket,
but we'd be able to sit together, eat good food and not be alone. It sure
beats chicken noodle soup heated up in an empty Cool Whip container.
At
4:20 PM I'm eating steak and garlic mashed potatoes and sipping Diet Pepsi
with three lime wedges. I'm beginning to wonder what the fuss was all
about, but I dare not say it less it point out any fault I may have. As I
drag my fork through the potatoes, making tracks with the tines. I'm quiet
because I find it hard to think and talk at the same time. My co-workers,
now my dysfunctional Easter family, are starting to come around, too,
laughing a bit as we usually do, reaching across the table to "share" each
other's plates and, damn them, making me smile. Then one goes and ruins the
greatest of foul moods by saying, "You know, we're always together anyway.
I guess this makes sense." We all had to agree. I even recalled the many
days off I've had where I've come into work anyway just to see everyone or
have lunch with one or two. Or how we look forward to pay day… not for the
checks, but because it's the only day (every two weeks) where we are all
together, if even for an hour. As wicked-child as it may sound, I can't
recall the last day off I've had where I've gone to my mother's. And if
that sounds bad, I even started to miss those who weren't there. My general
manager was at the top of the list, and Christ if I wasn't going to sue the
whole franchise and burn him at the stake just hours before. When my
heart's been broken, who do I call? Julia. When I'm stressed and ready to
explode, who gets the joy of hearing me vent? Brian. When I need to be
entertained, when I need good conversation, when I need to just listen and
sit back and not talk anymore where do I go? Straight to my co-workers; my
friends.
I'm
sure there is still some time to get that last piece of pie at my parents'
house, but sitting here, listening to stories and laughing as we are, I
haven't looked at my watch in quite some time. I'm just as comfortable and
comforted with talk of Phil's move to grad school as I would have been
listening to my Uncle Mike talk of the time his motorcycle lost it on a dead
squirrel and landed him in the river. Hearing Stacy complain of a blind
date gone wrong is just as interesting as hearing my sister's latest tale of
the basketball player she dumped for a football player. I hate to say it,
but this apple crisp we're sharing for dessert tastes almost as good as what
my father pulled out of the oven.
I
wonder who's working on Mother's Day. |
